


Musketeer Garrison, August 1637

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One At War [18]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Biting, Cadets, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Class Differences, Codes & Ciphers, Correspondence, Embedded Images, Fantasizing, Franco-Spanish War, Frustration, Gen, Gossip, Mansplaining, Military Training, Politics, Power Dynamics, Protofeminism, Sexual Fantasy, Some Historical Fudging, Training, Wartime, implication of torture for information purposes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-03-05 12:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18828811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: The cadets are coming along well, but will it be quickly enough? Other pressures are mounting.*Another installment in the long series of wartime correspondence (and other pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).





	1. Form

#### Monday 3rd August

Paris is heavy with heat, the clouds massing on the horizon looking all the blacker for the bright sunshine drenching the yard. Constance stands in the shade and watches the cadets sparring.

They’re definitely better. The difference that’s been made getting the right man in for the job (finally) is actually measurable. She can’t help but feel a small satisfaction in that, didn’t bother to keep it from her voice when reporting to Tréville last week.

“And now you can see for yourself.”

He smiles, bright blue eyes fixed on the horizon of these lads’ futures. Without looking around he says: “It’s very good, Madame.”

“Bloody should be,” she mutters, at the kind of volume where he can choose to hear it or not.

Porthos used to imply pretty heavily that his Captain was a champion at selective deafness.

There are her boys, sweating up a storm, getting stronger, faster, smarter, and… she eyes them critically… yes, definitely broader across the shoulders, even the ones who’re shooting up like beanstalks.

“We should talk uniforms,” she tells him.

He sighs. “I daresay you’re right.”

“Doublets or something, at least.” They’d only lose hats, and whoever heard of breeches alone as a uniform?

He’s silent for a moment, and she sees he’s following the progress of a particular bout, shoulders and hips twitching in minute, phantom moves. He mutters under his breath, probably not even aware that he’s doing it. She takes a moment to work out where he’s engaged, confirmed when the smaller one takes a tumble and he sighs, slumping a little.

“Pick him up!” she calls, but the taller lad’s already leaning down, bared arm outstretched. She nods, satisfied, doubly so when she sees him check in, the other nod, shaking off the fall visibly as he steps back, raising his practice blade to guard position.

“Names?” he asks, as they start again.

“Clairmont,” she points to the blond. “Started his full growth in the winter, spent a good month astonished at the length of his arms.” They chuckle. “Good lad. A bit… dreamy sometimes.”

“And the other?”

“Brujon.”

“Unusual name,” he muses.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

“A plodder. I mean that in a good way!” she adds, hurriedly. “He takes just that touch longer, but he works at it until he’s got it, and then no-one’s taking it off him. Good shot, mind. Probably one of our best. So far.”

“Good eye on him, then.”

“Very.” You know, she thinks. You know as well as I do. Which is to say: you’ve put all the bits together and you’re wondering about the next step.

“How are they over distance?”

“Shooting or running?”

“Both.”

“We’re working on it. Need to get them out of the garrison a bit more, give them room to stretch.”

Fabron joins them on a large gust of breath, grinning. “It’s time. Paris should see ’em.”

“I’m not risking them,” says Tréville, with something of a snap, “they’re–”

“Then you’re not proving them.”

“I was going to say that,” says Fabron, mock defensively. She grins back at him across the Minister, who continues to gaze at the practice combatants.

“Not yet, that’s all I’m saying.”

“When, Minister?” Fabron’s tone is subdued, and all of them know fine well it’s frustration rather than deference.

“Give it another month or so, I’d say.”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Less of that,” says Tréville with an arch of eyebrow and a suppressed smirk. He bows forward a little, letting the authority out of his shoulders for a moment. “I know you want to share your pride in them, but I want nothing… _official_ to dent that pride.”

He looks around at each of them. They nod gravely back.

Something comes together for Constance. “Has he appointed the Governor yet?”

Tréville’s expression darkens. _Oh shit_. “Not formally,” he says, heavily. “Not yet.”

“But where would a wise man be putting his money?” She peers at him. “De la Trémoille? No,” she answers herself, “too Calvinist. That business with his wife.” Tréville nods. “De Maillé-Brézé would never leave the Front. Same with d’Épernonon.” She screws her face up, the list getting shorter. “The Duke of Montbazon would never leave his wife alone for that long.” Tréville chuckles, a little bitterly. “Armand de Bourbon?”

“The… Prince of Conti?” asks Fabron, slowly.

“Can you imagine…” murmurs Tréville.

“Well, no,” she concedes. “So we’re down to the Duke of Guise, the Marquis de Feron, or the Marquis de Cinq-Mars?” she ventures.

Tréville’s jaw bunches over the last two and Fabron curses softly.

“The lads don’t need to know this,” says the Minister, “ _yet_.”

“The lads won’t understand this,” retorts Fabron.

“Then see that they do!” Tréville rounds on him. “They’ll be Musketeers. They’ll need to know the politics as well as the sword forms. They’ll need to know who to squeeze for information and who to let come to them. They’ll need to be able to put a bullet through a man’s eye, then reload as if it were the most workaday thing in the world, and put the next one down while their friends are risking knives in their guts. They’ll need to enter a mêlée trusting their own skill and strength and nerve, and that of those around them, and that there’s a marksman covering their backs. They’ll need to know who to bow to, who to nod to, and who to ignore. They’ll need to learn how to shift between flattery and threats at exactly the right time. They’ll need to know how to move undetected through countryside and live off it to boot. And they’ll need to know enough about the kind of man who’ll be having charge of a gang of men,” and the word does not sound smooth on his tongue, “who’ll as soon see any one of these bright lads bleeding in the gutter than let a King’s Musketeer walk unmolested through the rookeries. They come across a robbery,” he points at the earnest clamour, “and they’ll be best relying on themselves and each other than that bunch of jumped-up bravos. And you’d have them train under the public eye, green as weeds? You’re softer than I thought, the pair of you.”

Constance feels herself flush, and watches Fabron’s expression turn a touch mutinous. _Don’t you dare walk away, you bastard_ , she thinks. _Don’t you_ dare!

“Who’s going to teach them this, Minister?” To her relief, he turns honestly pleading eyes to him. “It’s not me. I get their bodies strong, give ’em heart when they’re blistering and aching, get them to the point where they don’t _think_ about parrying and thrusting, punching and throwing, just _do_ it. But I know damn-all about patrolling these streets, about the latest favourites at the Palace. I’m not even _from_ here!”

 _As if we didn’t know that from your accent_ , thinks Constance, wryly.

“We’re none of us that originally,” she reminds him.

“Then who?”

“Well, for a start,” she says, gently, “Serge? Me? I know more about Palace gossip, even now, than the Minister knows, at one level. And _he_ ’s going to tell us what’s going on at other levels. Aren’t you, sir?”

“Stop that,” he says, reflexively.

“He’s also going to tell us about his favourite informants from back in the day, aren’t you?” She smirks chirpily up at him. He rolls his eyes.

“I’ll make a list,” he tells her, drily.

“Thank you,” she says, with a small bob.

“You can stop that, and all…” She gives a dry gesture somewhere between nod and shallow bow, channelling him, channelling Athos, and he smirks, seemingly helplessly, eyes sliding away as his grin broadens.

“I should…” he says, with regret dropping through his expression, body turning a little.

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll walk you out?”

“Hmm. Yes, please.”

He and Fabron nod to each other and Tréville claps him on the upper arm as he strolls past.

At the gate he pauses, hand on the latch to the wicket, looking away, then back. She waits.

“Doublets?” he asks her, head bent towards her courteously.

“Something simple,” she nods, “hardwearing, in the right colour.” She sees the livres stack heavily behind his eyes. “I’ll run up a budget for you, see what favours I can pull. I’ll sew ’em all myself if I have to.”

He chuckles softly. “No need for that, surely.”

She shrugs. “Someone will be glad to get the commission for outfitting the King’s Musketeers – cadets or otherwise – in fact, them being growing lads should be more of an incentive to offer a competitive price than anything.”

“How about… your husband’s cousin…?”

“Eriq?” She shrugs again, mouth a rueful slant. “I don’t think he’s finding the business as easy as he’d assumed.” She shakes it off. “I’ll find someone,” she tells him, briskly, nods.

His mouth a sideways slant, he nods back. “You have all my faith, Madame d’Artagnan.”

She dimples at him, bobs, grins broader when he rolls his eyes and bows back.

She walks slowly back to her place by the yard, stacking tasks in order of priority, slipping in beside Fabron, who’s still passing a proprietorial eye over the various exchanges, shaking his head at some, beaming at others. She can see him dancing to it, knows he’ll back out amongst them shortly. She smiles briefly in acknowledgement when she sees him look to her out of the corner of her eye. She’s too busy following Brujon’s push back against Clairmont, fiercely willing the smaller cadet to follow through on his advantage under her breath.

After a while she notices that Fabron’s attention hasn’t moved from her.

“What?”

“When are we going to see you out there?”

She frowns, turning her head towards him, says nothing, waiting for him to expand.

He’s unabashed. “The lads aren’t the only ones in hiding.” When she doesn’t shift so much as an eyebrow, he elaborates, surprisingly gently: “When are you going to show them that you’re more than a soldier’s wife who’s good with an account book and a needle?” As her frown deepens he raises a conciliatory hand. “No, these are good things, _obviously_ , but you’re more than that _as well_. They deserve to know who their leader is.”

She feels astonishment wash across her on a wave of something nearly like fear, stares at him.

“What, you think that’s me?!” He wrinkles his nose as he laughs outright. “Think about it: I’m showing them how to get strong and fast – _you’re_ showing them what to do with that, what it means to be a Musketeer; all of the rest of it…” He claps her on the shoulder, matey as you like, strides into the ranks, roaring encouragement and admonishments in rapid succession, adjusting postures and grips and shouting “Again!” and “Better!” while she stares blankly into space.

_You’re the Palace liaison, the Captain’s adjutant. You’re as much his lieutenant as d’Artagnan or Porthos._

And she’d known that, acted that, but still, put that way…

“Huh,” she says, aloud, lets a small smile curl across her, and, after a couple more watching minutes, strolls back upstairs to her office, where she opens the window to hear the yard’s clamour, have it underpin the next set of lists she makes.

She’s still smiling when the thunderstorm finally hits, thrusts head and shoulders out to revel in the shift of temperature, the blessings of the elements. It’s going to be an interesting month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remarkably, the only non-canon, non-historical figure in all of this is Swordmaster Michel Fabron, the [idea of whom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13940076/chapters/32189499) I liked so much I [gave him a cameo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14634717), then brought him back because really – who was training the cadets all this time? Constance? Serge? Tréville?!
> 
> I wanted to give Feron some rivals, so here they are, including [Hercule de Rohan, Duke of Montbazon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hercule,_Duke_of_Montbazon) who, alone among all the historical "candidates" listed, actually _was_ [Military Governor of Paris](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Military_governor_of_Paris), 1643-16??, coming in after a gap of about 50 years without one (presumably why the BBC decided they could safely install the fictional Feron in the position).


	2. Template

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image transcription on hover-over where possible and in end notes.

She’s roused from ledgers (and, let’s face it, anything’s a relief from them) by a voice hollering through the muffle of downpour:

“Oi! Who’s within?!” She scrambles out from her desk, bashing her thigh in the process and rubbing it hard to compensate as she dives to the window. “Fine lot of sodding guards you lot are if– Oh, ’ello, Mistress!”

“For goodness’ sake!” she hollers back. “Get under shelter!”

“You wouldn’t have seen me else!”

“Dolt! Wait under there!”

“Will do, Mistress!” comes the cheery reply.

“Bloody couriers,” she mutters as she wrenches the door open and slams through it. “Think they’re a whole class apart,” down the corridor, “from the rest of us bloody mortals,” diving into the rain and clattering down the stairs, “and don’t have the sense to come in from the bloody rain.” Rounding under the balcony she gives the sopping man her driest smile. “Well?”

“Where’s everybody else?” He’s shaking off his shapeless hat with one hand, pushing his sparse hair back with the other, shaking through the strands to rid them of surface water.

“Indoors.” Some of them shut up if you give them the old one-word glare.

“Well…! What if I’d been…” he waves an arm, “you know…?” It would have worked if she was bloody Athos.

“What?” Silent _shut up_ clues haven’t worked with this fellow in – she casts her mind back – six years or so, bloody hell, but you never know.

“You know!” He grimaces cheerfully. “A bad man.”

“A bad man.”

“Yeah. Come to rob you and that.”

“He wouldn’t get very far.”

“Now, see, what _I_ ’d do is…” and he’s off. It was the same story whenever he delivered cloth to Bonacieux’s house and she had the misfortune to answer the door. Who knew one man could have so many opinions about brocade and the storage of linen? At first she’d thought his undentable familiarity was due to the fact that he was from… bugger, where the Hell is he from, anyway? Accent close enough to hers, anyway, for her to grasp back then, homesick, at any sense of familiarity.

She finally hears him take breath and dives in: “I can see that you’re a man of unparalleled depths of undiscovered military knowledge, and I thank you for sharing your insights, but I’d very much like any mail you’ve got for the garrison so I can get back to work.”

“Where’s everyone else, then?” He’s digging in his satchel.

“Indoors.” The word’s heavier now for repetition.

“Not training then?”

“Well, they were, then they went indoors.”

“They never train in the rain, then? Wars aren’t always in fair weather, Mistress…”

She has rarely wanted to punch a man more for what’s so little if she were to have to explain to anyone else why he was bruised and bleeding.

“They have chores,” she retorts, shortly. “It’s not all waving swords and shooting guns.”

He looks up, quizzical, hand stilling in the bag’s depths. “Chores?!”

“They have to learn how to take care of their weapons, their armour, their clothes–”

Frowning deeper, he cuts in with: “Ain’t that your job?”

“What?”

“Clothes and that?”

 _Count to ten_ , she tells herself. _Breathe_. “Why would you think that?”

He looks confused now, but also – and this is key – somewhat contemptuous that she is asking him such a question. “Because of where you were before?”

“The Palace?” she asks, not caring, now, how sharp she sounds.

He blinks, looks baffled again, and she sees – she just fucking _sees_ – the moment where he scrubs it away, cuts it out of his reality because it’s too much work reconciling it with his model of the world.

Her eyes narrow and she steps a little closer to him. “You were wondering, monsieur, were you not, what we would do if you were a bad man? Or, for that matter, just someone not welcome here?” She cocks her head to one side. “Because the thing is, monsieur, that the lads need practice in all sorts of things, like hand-to-hand fighting, shooting, and yes, really – cooking, darning socks, and keeping their kit in good order, for they’ll not have _me_ with them on campaign – but one of the things they’re sadly lacking in, which I’m _sure_ you could help them with, is interrogation.”

“Interrogation, Mistress?” His faded blue eyes look honestly baffled.

“Yes. It’s not all romantic swordfights by moonlight and foiling dastardly plots in the nick of time by… by catching a thrown bomb and throwing it back at someone.” God, that’s a horrible image. “Sometimes,” she continues, left fist clenching behind her skirt, “there’s dirty work to be done in the King’s name. We catch them, and then we have to find out what they know. And believe me, monsieur, they don’t tell you for the asking.” She’s never done this, not _yet_ , but she’s seen the reality of it behind all their eyes, (though maybe not d’Artagnan’s). Holding her blade to Vargas’s throat, she knew that, brave as he was, he was more pragmatic than anything else, and protective of his King’s interests in his sister besides. She wonders, now, how far she might have gone had he balked.

And now she remembers Tréville taking a deep breath, right shoulder hunching, face closing, when Robert had come into his office to let him know that they’d finally brought down the last of Rochefort’s network. She gestures in the general direction of the Bastille. “What do you think they’re doing with the Périgord Croquants they still have in prison right now? Asking them politely to give over the names of their leaders, their suppliers? Believe me, the ones hanged and beheaded won’t be the only ones they took. Right now, right _now_ there is someone using all sorts of… techniques for loosening tongues, among other things, and my handy lads will have to learn some of that. Won’t have the luxury of all those instruments, restraints, time, will have to improvise–” she stops herself rolling her eyes at the blank look in his and then lets herself. Because _really_ … “That is to say: they’ll have to be inventive, make things up on the spot, in dark corners of Paris, in the holding cells here, on the road, and in lonely forests across France and further abroad. They’ll take prisoners of war, and capture spies and informers, and they’ll have to find out what they know; cajoling and bribing, yes, but other times swift, efficient, brutal. They’ll have to learn how not to stop themselves, just as they’re learning how not to stop themselves from a killing stroke, and how should I have them do that? Hmm?

“You’re a clever man, full of thoughts, full of advice – how should I have my lads practice extracting information? On each other? No good. They have to build a specific type of trust. Though, come to think of it, they’re going to have to be good at resisting attempts to get information _from_ them. Lord. Where was I? Oh yes, practising extracting. On hardened criminals? Hmm. No shortage of those, it’s the catching and keeping of them… So how, monsieur? Taking any opportunity they have?”

She cocks her head the other way, holding his gaze with hers. And stops talking, just lets his mind and his imagination run.

“Um,” he says after a while.

“Yes?” she responds, very softly.

“I don’t know nothing about that.”

“Fair enough. We’ll have to make do by ourselves.”

“Er, Mistress?”

“Yes?” she says slowly, letting a small amount of menace leak into the tone.

“Why are snacks in the prison anything to do with–?”

“Dear Mother in Heaven, give me my mail and fuck off before I make you into a real straw man.” Her hand flies out to point at the dangling practice dummies across the yard.

“Y-yes, Mistress!” he squeaks and rummages in his satchel, leaning back as he does so. He drops the packages into her waiting palms, claps his soggy hat onto his head and scuttles off, clutching his bag to his belly.

“Right,” she grits out through her teeth. Serge emerges from across the courtyard and gives her a quick upward nod. When she makes to cross over to him he holds his hand out and shakes his head, starts lumbering towards her.

“Courier?” he wheezes out as he gets to her, shaking droplets from his head like the old dog he is.

“Courier.” He was probably watching, quiet-like, from the doorway. Some habits die harder than old Musketeers.

“Got my spices, eh?”

“Oh.” She hasn’t looked. “Probably.” One of them is squishy and lets out a pleasant smell.

“Heh.” He grins his cracked-doll grin and swollen fingers pluck it from hers. “That’ll put some heart in things.” He screws up his face briefly. “What’s up?”

“Oh, just… stupid man.”

“Yeah.” He sniffs. “Most are, in my experience.”

“Plenty of that, haven’t you?”

“Aye. Listen, love, don’t let him in your head, eh?”

“You don’t even know what he said…”

“Don’t need to. You’re all snarled up,” he points to her temple, “anyone can see that. We need you just thinking of us, end of the day. Using all those brains o’ yourn for us poor sojers.” He winks.

She gives him a comically exaggerated look of exasperation and he chuckles. “Seriously, though, love. When’s the last time you had a day off?”

“When did _you?_ ” she shoots back. There are few enough people she’ll allow to call her _love_ , and this villainous old workhorse must know that.

“Last Thursday,” he says, prompt and calm, almost smug. “Went down to the river and did fuck-all all day. Bloody brilliant. That’s what I have an apprentice for, innit?”

“Oh.”

“You should think on that.”

“When I know how to do my job, old man, I’ll be able to train someone else to do the heavy lifting.”

“Heheh.” The chuckle is dry but genuine. “We’re all of us making it up, Tréville  included. Don’t forget that. You think he knew what was needed, being Captain, then being Minister for bloody War? Nah.”

“Just making it up?”

“Yep. Leastways at first.” He sniffs again. “Anyway, I’d best go, see what’s burning.”

“ _Serge…!_ ”

“S’alright,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Raining too hard for any serious damage.”

She rolls her eyes, casts a dry look at the dangling targets, and takes the rest of her packages upstairs.

As suspected, they are mostly packets from the Front. Here is Athos-as-Captain’s, and she opens it first, taking in the news of movements, the dry reckoning over of losses (few, thank God) and need for supplies (she grimaces for some of the quantities, even knowing that he will be being typically conservative with an eye for what’s needed in a few months’ time as well), sets down the needful information in the correct ledger, jots notes for herself to take to Tréville later in the week as part of their more regular reporting, before noticing that she’s done all this without stopping to decipher the letter explicitly.

Oh. Well, she hadn’t reckoned on reaching this stage being so quick, but practice does make perfect, after all. And today’s is an easy one, to boot.

A voice remarkably like Athos’s own, with a little of Porthos, tells her not to undervalue her own skills, and she absent-mindedly salutes it with a grin.

The rest is bills, which go in their own ledger, some of them to be tutted over where the requested amount is significantly different from that quoted or estimated on her part. She knows she’s going to hear the refrain of _war; shortages; and supply and demand, madame_ , and steels herself ahead of tomorrow’s errands for it. A good many of them will need to wait for the stipend, and God knows that can be an exercise in patience to receive at the best of times, let alone after the last couple of tricky harvests and disgruntled Croquants raising their heads again. She wishes she weren’t so sympathetic to them. She’s glad no King’s Musketeers were sent to put them down.

And yet the money must come from somewhere. Her boys are growing. She may well end up making those damned doublets herself at this rate, she thinks, rather grimly, and underlines a particularly egregious sum with enough vehemence to split nib or paper, in the end rescuing it by dint of pulling her hand away halfway through the stroke. She checks the page beneath this one, tuts tiredly and sprinkles sand on both, leaving the book open to dry by in the air as the storm beats itself into submission beyond her window.

It’s time to read something more leisurely and less apt to make her lose her temper. Maybe not _leisurely_. Hmm. _Indulgent?_ Yes, that’ll do.

Athos’s hand on another packet, tightly folded and bound with twine, brings a smile to her face. There will be a new move in the chess game. She decides to hold off on that for the moment. D’Artagnan’s first, then.

Except that there’s nothing there in his hand. Frowning her disappointment away, she tells herself firmly that it’s folded in with Athos’s. The image that produces in her mind, of them folded together, lazy and warm, pulls a smile to her lips. Yes: indulgent is the word after all. The writing on the final letter takes her a moment before she realises that it’s from Porthos. Oh. Well, a simple pleasure first, like a palate cleanser. She unfolds it with a smile.

She stifles a giggle at the last part, both for the thought of Athos’s (probably) partially performative grumbling, and also, of course, Porthos’s inadvertent choice of words – imagines Athos _moaning_ at being bitten, flushing hard under the golden freckles he’s almost certainly accumulated again now summer’s ending, d’Artagnan latched onto… where? Mmh, his neck, she thinks. They are both still clothed, but bootless, yes, barefoot, Athos sprawled on his back and d’Artagnan leaning close over him, the white of his shirt a sharp contrast to his golden, rosewood tan, sleeves rolled up.

Of course, rosewood now means something extra to her, and she bites her lip at the suggestion of the godemiche nudging at the back of her mind. Hmm, no, back to them – Athos’s head back to give d’Artagnan as much access as possible, one hand clutching into the sheets (sheets or ground? Hmm…) beneath him, the other tight on his lover’s arm.

He’s going to leave faint fingertip bruises there that will make him blush later to see at, let’s see, breakfast. Yes. And d’Artagnan will smile slyly at him where he thinks no-one can see, the massive sap.

She rolls her eyes fondly, then takes a deep breath and reaches to break the seal on Athos’s twine. Unfolding the packet she sees three things in quick succession: the chessboard move is going to need more thought than usual to answer; there is no sign of a missive from d’Artagnan; and the code Athos has used has a key unknown to her. Well, no matter, she’ll just have to decode it from scratch. She supposes she’s owed after the December switch she imposed on him, but she finds herself a little put out, the _ease_ she’d promised herself no longer so easily within her grasp, the visions of sprawled and mildly tortured Athos with diligent and over-excited d’Artagnan in balmy summer conjunction fading a little under the dry, mathematical realities in front of her.

Oh, the absolute _git!_ An unconscionable quantity of time later she throws down her pencil with a curse, hissing through clenched teeth. So far she’s worked out that B is A, W is I, and probably J-T, X-H, S-E, but the rest is slow going as he’s foregone many of the usual clues. She wasted a great deal of time and energy initially assuming that _Iskj_ stood for the usual Dear, which resulted in some sheer nonsense before she backtracked. _Bevhjbpj_ is not Constance, as any dolt could have seen if she’d been paying proper attention instead of… “Being _smug!_ Dammit!”

She closes her eyes firmly and takes three deeper breaths, gathering herself together, pulling her hands into her lap. She pushes the chair back slowly and carefully from the table, stands calmly, and opens her eyes.

“Right.”

She nods once, takes another, much deeper breath, and sets off to find Fabron. There’s got to be nothing quite like trading blows with a man who wilfully encourages her to drive focused punches and kicks as hard and often as she can at any bodypart of the stuffed model in the basement she can reach (and occasionally his own) to dissipate this frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ### Historical Notes
> 
> The [Croquant Rebellions](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Croquant_rebellions) (1594/5, 1624, and – pertinently for us – May 1637) are going to come up a couple more times in this work, so here’s the reasonably contracted version of the more recent of those:
> 
> Taxes had risen so steeply for this war that the Périgord petitioners pointed out to the King that they’d been asked to pay more in that year alone than in the entirety of his father’s reign. In addition, the armed bailiffs were hauling goods and cattle off their land to pay the fine of not having even been able to pay that swingeing tax bill yet. They didn’t have a problem with paying taxes, but they wanted to pay the old rates; the ones they could afford. Having to billet soldiers as part of the war effort probably hadn’t improved their humour any, and the _seigneurs_ (think middle-men between the nobility and the peasants) were passing the pain on with outrageous hikes in their own taxes ( ~~skimming off the top~~ making a profit is just so tricky when the crown wants so much…) rather pushing back to the King/ his ministers. Previous complaints/ uprisings had gone pretty well, with negotiations being a key feature. This time, their demands were rejected and they formed a militia. It was intensely democratic, and their leader, the anonymous nobleman with the glorious _nom de guerre_ (war name) of _La Mothe-La Forest_ had been elected to lead them, dividing them into detachments and organising the whole thing with impressive flair and efficiency.
> 
> They were thoroughly rousted by the King’s forces and certain of the leaders publicly executed. I go on about this in some detail [here](https://animanightmate.tumblr.com/post/189962281400/currently-researching-17th-century-french), in case you found the Wikipedia entry as disappointing as I did. I may end up editing the Wikipedia entry, quite honestly.
> 
> Oh, and _Croquants_ was the original nickname for the nobility doing the "biting" of the peasants, but the nobility turned that around, essentially making the rebels their "snacks" (hence the courier’s confusion).
> 
> ### Image Transcriptions
> 
> #### Porthos’s Letter
> 
> Dear Constance,
> 
> How goes it with you? We have had a bit of a vacation, with lots of eating, drinking, sleeping, and just sitting about. The quiet is nice if a bit weird. I forgot to say thanks for the gift before – it’s really nice. Bit battered now with decamping and that but still smells like home. Also the gloves and scarf. And knots – clever!
> 
> Hope you are well!
> 
> PORTHOS x
> 
> P.S. We are about to walk ~~home~~ back to camp. Looking forward to hearing Athos moan about being bitten on the way.
> 
> #### Athos’s Letter
> 
> 18 June 1637
> 
> Iskj Bevhjbpj,
> 
> Zolywgs jxs esrbc kwpts rbkj W flojs wp jxwk tbnbtwjc. Fs xbgs zohpe ohlksrgsk bj lbls rswkhls, jxohyx kjwrr brr joo zbl zloq fxsls ohl xsbljk fohre rsbe hk. Fs xbgs, xofsgsl, jbusp jxs onnoljhpwjc oz kstrhkwop, bk nlskspjse ic ohl toqlbes*, jo sdtxbpys ywzjk wpknwlse ic cohl yspslokwjc.
> 
> Po eohij xs fwrr jsrr coh oz xwk ofp wqnlskkwopk – rwqwjse bk xs fbk, xs xbk pops khtx zol jxs nlskspj qoqspj bj rsbkj. Fxsp psdj fs qssj w qhkj qbus kxwzj jo isjjsl lstlsbjs zol coh jxs kwyxjk bpe kohpek jxbj qsj qs, kjlsjtxwpy iore, ilopas, bpe isbhjwzhr wpjo jxs rbjs qolpwpy rwyxj, topkjlbwpse bpe kjlbwpwpy, koqsfxsls iscope folek, bpe brfbck rbnnse biohj ic rogs – kozj bpe kjlopy – bk jxohyx cohl xbpe fsls jlhrc nlskspj.
> 
> Zhljxsl, wj fohre bnnsbl jxbj w xbgs coh jo jxbpu zol jxs yblrbpe oz jwpc ilhwksk jxbj jfwps hn qc lwyxj blq bpe beolp qc jxwyxk, sbtx rogwpy loksjjs nlskkse wp bttolebpts fwjx cohl begwts, bnnblspjrc, bpe ko W lsqsqisl coh – coh iojx –  sbtx jwqs qc blq jhlpk hpesl jxs fswyxj oz qc blqohl, qc bqohl, bpe fxsp W kwj bkjlwes qc xolks.
> 
> Xs xbk b kxbln bnnsjwjs, cohl xhkibpe. brqokj bk kxbln bk cohl scsk.
> 
> Fs xore coh wp ohl jxohyxjk, bk sgsl, sdjspewpy xbpek bpe xsbljk btlokk jxs qwrsk.
> 
> Fwjx ylsbj bzzstjwop,
> 
> Athos
> 
> *W sptroks xwk ofp pojs jo coh


	3. Schema

**Monday 3rd August: evening, Western Paris**

He is fighting his own unease again. His Lordship’s town house is pleasant, and an animal part of him, let’s say, enjoys the airiness of it; the high, white walls; the comfortable chairs; the silent running of hinges and the sweet smell of beeswax that hangs around every wooden surface.

Or it may be that’s the civilised man in him. The animal knows it for Not Its Territory. He feels less in control here. It smells wrong – too bland, too easily marked. And any mark would be diligently scrubbed away, made sweet again.

He refuses to be cowed, refuses to view anywhere as not his own place, and so he is here, again, giving and receiving progress notes, exchanging words and terms and, frustratingly frequently, money. If he’d known keeping a pet of this high calibre would be so fucking expensive, he’d have opted for something he could at least shoot and eat when it became more trouble than it was worth.

That time’s a way in the future still, he reckons. They’re still at the beginning of this… partnership. Now there’s an uncomfortable notion for both of them.

Their talk is currently the same as much of fashionable Paris, another new territory for him, intent over decent wine, their meal silently and recently cleared from a table that is both beautiful and sturdy, something he is coming to associate with the Marquis.

“What we need is to narrow the field a bit,” he tells him. “Cut it down.”

“What we _need_ is a miracle.” The Marquis’s eyes are hooded, and he’s half a beat from pouting.

“All we need to do is to pluck de Cinq-Mars from the King’s lap. Or vice versa, of course.”

“As I said: we need a bloody miracle!”

He smiles, all dark suggestion. “For the right price, even miracles can fall into the wrong hands…”

His Lordship loves it when he raises the stakes from his own intellectual-fashionable flirting with blasphemy into something truly outrageous. “And which Saint were you thinking of propitiating?” he smirks.

“Not really my area of expertise,” he returns, drily.

“Well,” the Marquis huffs, spirits deflating as quickly as they puffed up, “one of us had better get on his knees and do _something_ useful, or we’ll be looking at a squandered opportunity!”

He regards him levelly. “Being Governor isn’t your only option.”

“It’s the best opportunity we’ll have in _years_ , and you know that very well! And I tell you: nothing can tear the King’s favourite from his side. He cannot _bear_ to be parted from him!”

His mouth quirks to one side. “And what does the Queen say to that?”

The Marquis shapes a pettish moue. “Nothing. There’s no woman like her for silence.”

His mind shows him the shape of something at this, but it’s too vague yet to sketch, let alone hold.

He finds himself saying: “Tell me again how they came to be so – that the King would go from having her his sweetheart to parading his catamite in front of her?”

“Now now,” reprimands His Lordship, reinflating a little, waggish. “That’s a scurrilous imputation.”

He just stares at him. The Marquis clearly fights (not hard enough) not to roll his eyes, says, patiently enough: “That is to say: a _naughty suggestion_. We have no proof, after all…” _And no high horse to be sitting on in that regard,_ he thinks, letting the… _imputation_ of that trickle out in a tiny lift of lips. The Marquis smirks back.

“So…?” he prompts.

“Ah, well, the redoubted Rochefort sought to separate them for his own ends, pursuing rumours that the Queen had been less than faithful to him.”

“And was there meat to this?”

The Marquis shrugs. “After nearly twenty years, the Queen suddenly bears a strong child to term? A miracle indeed. In either event, the suggestion that any blood but Louis’s ran in the Dauphin’s veins was quite enough to separate the King from both his reason and his fondness for the woman. Hmm,” he adds, “and besides, he’d already pushed her away with his one and only mistress in all that time – the Milady de Winter. A stunningly bold creature, by all accounts, possessed of many _tricks_ , which clearly turned my poor half-brother’s head, wrecking his reputation for _chastity_.”

“And where’s she now, this tricky mistress?” His mind, always on the search for levers, is cataloguing and filing.

Another shrug. “She foolishly flouted the King’s command and he labelled her untrustworthy, even traitorous, and flung her from the court.”

The pattern looms a little closer and clearer, but he can’t help but indulge his curiosity. “What command?”

“It all depends on whom you heed–”

“As ever.”

“Yes, well. But the rumours range from witchcraft to saving his life, so confusion is married to the mix.”

“And this Rochefort,” he asks, “the King trusted him?”

“Beyond all stretch of reason, considering his machinations against him. Say what you like about Richelieu, but he always had the best interests of France underneath his schemes.”

He’s silent for a long moment. The Marquis fidgets, but has learned already not to press for the sake of his curiosity.

“It appears,” he says, eventually, “that the King is very big on loyalty. Not only that, but he’s easy to sway in that regard – to persuade him that someone is his enemy. Especially…” a slow smile spreads as the thought comes clearer to him, “if it’s someone with whom he’s particularly intimate.”

He watches the idea twist and fit in the Marquis’s mind. A finger curls up over his chin. “Go on…”

“How sings our little bird lately?”

“Which one?”

Ah. Yes. “The one in the _gilded_ cage.” Expensive little twitterer.

A brief, wry slant of lips, a huff of dry laughter. He’s beginning to read his Lordship’s expressions very well, to delve between the ever-present tightening that pain casts over him. Though less, of course, once a measure of ease has been given him. “Very prettily. Why?”

“I’m wondering if he has any influence in the other direction.”

“If _dear_ Henri will listen to _him_ , you mean.”

He nods. Waits.

“In small matters, certainly. Maybe. You were keen that he not be too… high-profile.”

“Nothing _high-profile_ needed. I just want him to… encourage the Marquis when he wants a favour of His Majesty.”

“Anything in particular?”

“There’s bound to be something. He must chafe at being so… quiet. So unhonoured–”

“He’s Grand Equerry of France!” snaps His Lordship.

“And yet is in the running for _your_ prize? No – this lad wants more, and something with a bit more _bite_.” City militia at his command for a start…

Feron chuckles. “A Croquant indeed.”

The amusement drops from him, and they stare at each other, him barely blinking, the other doing nothing but.

Unspoken exchanges about rebellion and insurrection, loyalty and accusation flit between them.

“Could we?” murmurs his Lordship after the long, silent moment.

He breathes out heavily through his nose. “It would be perfect… if we had about eight months.”

“Ah, quite.”

“Unless he already has thoughts in that direction, I can’t see how–”

“And if he did?” Feron asks absently, delicately, poking at the tabletop between them, all his attention seemingly on it.

“Can you be _sure?_ ”

“ _Another_ little bird,” and verily, there’s a whole _coop_ of the fuckers, “may have indicated that the Marquis is already in correspondence with a certain Monsieur…”

He’s about to demand how _that_ bloody helps, when Feron’s eyes rise for a moment, limpid with meaning.

Monsieur. “Monsieur with a capital _Mons_ , I take it?”

His Marquis smirks. “Indeed.”

“That’s… useful.” A Prince with a grudge and someone close to the King.

“Indeed.”

“And how fond is your connection with your _other_ brother?”

Feron’s eyes slide, blinking rapidly. Damn. He may have pushed him too far too fast. Under the table, his fist clenches slowly, face smooth as butter.

“Hmm.”

“Where is he these days?”

“Oh, back at Blois, I believe,” says the Marquis, eyeing the stem of his glass, injecting every element of his communication with a careless mien. It’s baffling and enraging, and he’s suddenly ten again, the belly on which he’s lying grumbling incessantly, folded on itself like an old sack, and his hand’s becoming increasingly numb as his fingers wave and wave and wriggle and beckon the fish to be tickled, stroked, knowing the slippery cold disappointment of tightening his grip too soon and having to start afresh, the stab in the gut, the taste of grass forced down to stop it keeping him awake at night. Failure is no longer an option, so wait, and wave, and dream of the taste as numbness creeps past a bony wrist.

He’s not so hungry, here and now (never again), that he can’t wait on this fish while considering what other traps are set in other bushes.

On a sudden flash of insight, he realises that these noble piss-weasels can _literally_ afford to take their time – years, if needs be – over their plots, whereas communication and tactical manoeuvring among his class of villain tends to be swifter and more brutal because their lives are measured on a different span. Like a man with little work to accomplish on a long summer’s day ekes it out, so these cut-glass wankers elongate their intrigues to fill a long and empty life.

And he realises that he’s smiling patiently at the Marquis, left hand clenched so hard under the table that the nails are digging pits into his skin, fingertips deep in the poolside grass, while the fingers of his right curl gently about the stem of his glass, thumb rubbing meditatively along its belly, a back and forth caress, and he catches the man’s eyes again, sending _softness_ , sending _calm_ , sending _respect_ , as though His Lordship were a tender maiden who needs coddling, eyes bright and shy by the water’s side, and _there_ , he’s disarmed.

“I wouldn’t want you to do anything you were uncomfortable with,” he murmurs. “If you think the risk is too great…”

“No… I. There are ways. Messages might be sent.”

“Your… bird? Can you trust him?”

The Marquis smirks. “Which one?”

All of them, you rancid codpiece! I need to know that you’ve got them in as close a grip as I have _any_ of my investments, you raddled whoreson!

A suggestion of a smile. He can’t do the whole thing, right now, but this… this works better. “Your brother’s.”

“Ah. Yes. I think the dear Duc may be feeling a little restless.”

“Lonely?”

“Mmh. Frustrated, certainly.” His lips purse, relax. “You have heard about his wives?”

“Wives?”

“Yes. The current one is… far more symptom than woman at this moment, as far as anyone else is concerned. Gaston _fulminates_ ,” he mimes an impotent fist-waving, “stewing in bitter juices.”

He remembers some of this now. “Richelieu’s death must have come as a relief.”

“Indeed.” Feron casts mock-pious eyes to the heavens. _God rest his soul… should He find it, etc._

“Should we encourage this relationship? Between Marquis and Duc?” Careful… “Not much of the summer left before the harvest comes in.”

Feron takes a sharp, decisive breath. “I think it could prove fruitful?”

He gives him a sliver of a nod, feels his fingers tighten, the tail thrashing, hard in his grasp.

“Let me know what you need,” he murmurs.

“Indeed.”

The pair of them take deeper breaths, and start to quietly tally over their other investments together. As he leaves, drawing the rain-scented air inside himself like water, heading towards the less salubrious parts of town where he overnights on trips like this, he smiles to think how he’s getting used to the quiet, the breadth of space. Not long before he’s in his proper place. Not long at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We seem to have moved away from the Garrison. Another work expands under me!
> 
> [Gaston](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaston,_Duke_of_Orl%C3%A9ans), by the way ("Monsieur le Prince", heir apparent until Louis finally had a son), has quite the history. You can see everyone being incredibly restrained in response to his lifelong insurrection just because he was in line to the throne and they couldn’t risk him, when giving him the full slap he deserved for his shenanigans would have been _sooo_ tempting…


	4. Device

**7 August 1637: Morning, Louvre Palace**

“Very good,” he says, smiling over the desk at her. However wide, there’s always caution in the Minister’s smiles; the soldier can’t ever stop watching. She wonders, for a startled moment, whether her own face has started to change that way. _Something_ ’s changed, anyway. It’s there in how people she used to work with look at her. She knows she holds herself differently, walks less decorously, has done for a while and, well, the scratches up the side of her face where Fabron spun her into the basement wall before either of them could stop it won’t help. That coming so hard on bruising her knee when she’d dodged his blow, tripped over her own foot and hit the floor hadn’t helped, but watching his whole body sag in relief when she started laughing was… well, it’s a good memory. Her knee doesn’t agree yet, and there’s no powder can completely cover her grazes. She’ll just have to wear them like any of the cadets would. A badge, maybe.

She nods to Tréville, smiling brightly. He returns the nod, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

Ah. “Is that a yes, then, Minister?”

The smile slips at the edges, letting some of his fatigue in. “In principle, yes, Madame. I can’t see… the _correct appearances_ being something too difficult to justify, especially on this proposed budget, but…”

“Hmm.” She brings out from inside her ledger another piece of paper, hands it over with a kind of sober twinkle. “I thought you might need this.”

He takes it reflexively, holding her gaze, then, on a small sigh, scans down the page to the bottom, barks a laugh that he turns up towards her. She smirks in response. He shakes his head, a rueful tint trembling across his expression. She frowns a _what?_ He takes a breath. “Politics lost a very able soul when you were born a woman, Madame.”

She doesn’t bridle. She _doesn’t_. Because she knows what he means, and that part of it is that he hates this as much as she does. Or he thinks he does, anyway.

She gathers herself and summons a smile. Nods towards the more expensive estimate in his hands that he will present first before ‘conceding’ a while later to the cheaper one. “And had I been born a man, Minister, those boys might well be going without, and your fine cadets a ragged bunch when first they’re presented to their King.”

His bright blue eyes narrow above a softening smile. “And I dare say that I’d have no cadets to show at all, had you been born anyone other than yourself, Madame d’Artagnan.” A frown flickers briefly on him, and it does seem odd, for a moment, that he’s offering her compliments with another man’s name in his mouth the only one he can call her. He looks down, head slanting, hand reaching up to scratch at his scalp, all unMinisterly for a moment. “Constance. You’re the most able adjutant I’ve yet worked with,” he says, looking up again, “and one I’m proud to have leading my new Musketeers as they grow. One day I hope to find a way to have all of France recognise that.” Her eyes sting and her face heats, because _really!_ “But for now we’ll have to content ourselves with you, me, the cadets, Fabron, and The Queen… and your Captain and husband… knowing your true worth.” He smirks a little – and she’s probably visibly blushing by now – nods, and says: “Leave this with me, Madame. I’ll have the money for you by the end of next week at the latest. Even if I’ve to hold a hat out on the Rue du Bac.”

She creases a _oh, hush!_ look at him, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue, half-laughing now, as he no doubt intended, and seizing on the thin joke as a means to regain her composure. “Maybe you should set your sights on a street further east,” she twinkles.

“Don’t you mean west?” He looks confused.

“No. There’s a reason rich folk stay rich. Besides, the poor of this city know the worth of the King’s Musketeers rather more than His Majesty does himself, I’ll warrant.”

“I find it hard to gainsay that, Madame.” Even as he frowns sincerely, his gaze flickers to the door and back.

She takes the hint, though he’ll not have meant it as such, and rises, gathering her ledgers. “I’ll see you this time next week, then?”

“If not before,” he says, standing with her and offering his brief and heartfelt courtesy that reminds her so much of Athos. She gives her own equivalent, bobbing a little, turns on her heel, and strides for the door, gesturing the next petitioner through.

While she’s here, of course, it’ll do no harm to gather any fresh intelligence on how things stand in this part of the world, and so she goes below stairs as soon as she can, getting fed and watered very well into the bargain, exchanging the latest on the health – and activities (parlour, bathroom, ballroom, and bedroom) – of a surprising array of people, across a number of degrees. She learns who is proudly pregnant, and who might be retiring for a few months in the country, or even discreetly seeking specific services. She learns about whose eyes meet a beat too long, and whose refuse to acknowledge the other. She learns whose beds have been slept in both sides, and none at all. She learns about the latest fashions among the courtly, and who is probably out of pocket as a result. In short, she learns a great deal about appetites, and much that happens between those who consider servants little more than clockwork bodies. Some of this will be shared with Tréville where appropriate, but there is little new about the two Marquises about whom her mind has been turning in vain. The older has brought a gift for the Dauphin, though the little fellow is less fond of sweetmeats than vigorous playmates.

“You can be sure the Marquis has made note of that. He means to be an uncle, that one.”

“And de Cinq-Mars?”

“Already walks about the Palace as though he owns the place. Took me a while to put my finger on it…” Nanette looks aside briefly, lowers her volume a touch. Constance leans forward as her eyes return. “But yeah, he holds himself more like the Queen than the Queen does, if you know what I mean.” Her nose wrinkles and her mouth slips to one side, her volume lowering again, head tilting. “Like _that_ one did.”

“Ah.” Milady. Yes. She can just see it. If Simone were here she’d be crossing herself now and spitting, to ward off the Devil.

She sits back, considering. “And what does my Lady make of that?” She’s never quite broken herself of that habit, it would appear. And though she’d managed to quash that way of talking about her in front of the nobles, and even her lovers, something about Nanette invites intimacy, and she’s slipped.

Not that there’s anything to– not any more. Or ever again.

Nanette’s face softens briefly. Unmarried Nanette, who smiles complexly at other people’s betrothals, dances hearty at other people’s weddings, and has never so much as blushed at a handsome guard. Constance wonders how she might take to working at the Garrison, then scolds herself for meddling.

“You’d have to ask someone else,” the maid confesses. “Not really my…”

Constance smirks. “Oh, I’ll just go enquire of Madame de Beauvilliers, shall I…?” and they both snigger, curling forward a little.

“Thank you, Nanette,” she says, laying a hand on hers. “I’ve kept you too long, I’m sure. Please be sure to blame me.”

“Not at all.” She’s still smiling. “Anyway, the rules are different when it comes to you, Constance. Everyone knows _that_.”

Constance leans to kiss her cheek in thanks, and they rise and go their separate ways, Nanette back into the kitchen’s clamour, and Constance up to the main hall, so that she can be Seen To Leave, as someone will no doubt report to Someone Else.

To her surprise, as she heads for the ornate entrance across the checkered atrium generally graced by lawyers, ministers, and other people of note (if not always nobility), she is hailed with something like relief. At least, she understands it to be her after a couple of false passes.

“Madame Bon-a-aah-d’Artagnan! Madame!”

She turns to see a servant clattering down the stairs. “Wait there!” he calls, and then disappears around a corner. In lieu of being able to stare at him, various well-dressed people stare at her. She stares right back and they whisper to each other or sail on. She controls her breathing, counts backwards from ten, and considers whether finding a chaise to sit on would be close enough to the letter of _staying here_ or if she should start practising her lunges just to give everyone something to _really_ stare at.

Luckily she’s saved from the scandal of her choice by the appearance of Minister Tréville on the main stairs bearing a package under one arm and attended by a pale, slender youth of about sixteen or so. Tréville gives her that famous slanted smile under watchful eyes, stops, and bows more deeply than usual.

Ah. She curtseys in response. Someone is watching. “Madame d’Artagnan, I’m glad to catch you before you left.”

“Minister,” she murmurs on a cautious nod. He’s still on the last step, so she has definitely been placed at a disadvantage. Brilliant.

“I have here a parcel which was sent to the Palace instead of the garrison.” He unhooks it and passes down something untidy and rather squishy. A brief check confirms d’Artagnan’s handwriting. Idiot. She nods again and tucks it under her own arm with the ledgers. This can’t be everything – he’d just have sent it on via a courier otherwise, or even used the excuse to step out to the garrison himself.

“I also take this opportunity to present François Armand Henri de la Croix, Chevalier de Trianon,” and he gestures, courteously enough, but with a very dry look for her darting across him as the youth steps down to her level, bowing briefly but fluidly. He is as finely dressed as you’d expect someone with such a mouthful of names while a mere chevalier, but throughout his manoeuvres his hand remains on the pommel of his sword, which seems somewhat more than decorative, so it’s less surprise than it should be when, as he raises mildly astonished hazel eyes to her lack of courtesy beyond a cautious nod, Tréville hands her another piece of paper, rolled and ribboned, seal cracked, announcing it: “His letter of recommendation to the Captain of the King’s Musketeers.”

Good Lord. “As a cadet,” she clarifies.

“Just so,” he confirms, and she’d be every kind of idiot to miss de la Croix’s thinning lips and lowering brows at this, fine though the latter are. And just as she’s thinking _whose favour are we_ this _time?_ Tréville nods at the scroll in her hand and says: “From the Marquis de Cinq-Mars.”

Oh, and that explains a _lot_ , not least the lad’s red-gold colouring, not quite as fiery as the Marquis’s, that certain adventurous gentlemen have taken to emulating as a nod to his popularity. And she should probably enquire about the Trianon connection at some point, though this probable cousin of a cousin of an in-law has successfully petitioned his favoured family member and that’s the end of it unless he manages to fuck up spectacularly.

Besides, at some point she’s going to have to explain how people leave their histories behind at the Garrison gate, and hope he takes the hint, potential spy though he may yet turn out to be. She sighs, suddenly feeling more burdened than before, stiffens her spine against the slump, nods to the Minister and says, briskly but not unkindly, to the lad: “Ready to come with me, then?”

He twists to look up at Tréville, now caught at the height disadvantage of his earlier courtesy, despite the promise of his long limbs. The Minister nods, telling him: “I’ll have someone send your man along with your effects. You go with Madame d’Artagnan now.”

He nods, face tense then astonished again when she makes an _after you_ gesture towards the door. She wagers he’s never met a woman like her, but there’s little point in easing him into his new world too gently, what with the sheer number of surprises yet to come at him.

At least, that’s what she’s telling herself right now, in spite of the Minister’s unrepentant twinkle above them.

“Please assure the Equerry,” she tells him, rather formally, raising her eyes but not her chin, knowing full well the kind of effect that this can have, “that we will take the appropriate care of the Chevalier.”

Tréville swallows a smirk at this and nods at her in rather more his usual style before turning as she does, and heading upstairs as she heads towards the door, rather more encumbered than she’d expected.

It’s going to be another long day, it would appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the best of my knowledge, de la Croix is entirely my own fiction (and yes, we’ll be seeing more of him), but de Trianon does have a several-times-removed distaff relationship to de Cinq-Mars. If anyone knows of a more correct fashion to introduce the petit chevalier, please let me know!


End file.
